Confession of the Lioness

Mariamar’s Version: THREE. An Unreadable Memory

Last night, when the strangers arrived in Kulumani, I didn’t make a point of watching their reception in front of the administration building. I could have escaped my confinement for a few moments. But I didn’t even bother. For years, my reason for living had been the dream of seeing Archie Bullseye again. Now there he was, just a few steps away, and I remained distant and withdrawn, peering out at the crowd milling around the visiting delegation. They were like vultures. They were feeding on leftovers. What was left of ourselves. And that’s what I told my mother: They’re like vultures. And birds of prey, according to local wisdom, don’t lose their sight even after they’ve died.

Hanifa Assulua’s authoritarian voice brought me down to earth:

Stop sleeping in the shelter of your eyelashes, Mariamar! Go and throttle a chicken.

A huge feast is being prepared to welcome the visitors. We women will remain in the shadows. We wash, sweep, cook, but none of us will sit down at the table. My mother and I know what we have to do, almost without exchanging a word. My job is to go and catch, kill, and pluck a chicken from our henhouse. As it evades me in a noisy, headlong rush, I hear footsteps behind me, as if someone were joining the chase. I stop running and, with bated breath, my eyes sweep the ground, searching anxiously. I can’t see anyone, and an anguished sigh escapes my breast:

Is that you, sister?

Eventually I realize I’m alone, sitting on the steps up to the chicken coop, where the chickens spend the night safe from the animals that prey on them.

Somewhere, so near here, Archie Bullseye is staying. And here am I, in the empty yard, plucking the chicken between my knees. The feathers flutter away, carried on the gentle breeze. Suddenly I glimpse Silência, in silhouette against the light, gathering up the floating feathers in her hands. She cups her hands so that nothing can slip away between her fingers and presents me with this soft, downy offering. I accept the gift and hear her familiar voice:

See here, sister: This is my heart. The lions didn’t take it. You know whom you should give it to.

I notice blood running down my arms, my capulana, my legs. Surely it’s the blood of the chicken, that’s what it looks like, but giddiness stops me from seeing properly. An uncontrollable rage bursts from my breast, a volcanic eruption. Then I hear my mother’s voice coming from the house:

Come on, Mariamar, haven’t you killed the chicken yet? Or are you plucking shadows as usual?

I try to answer, but words fail me. All of a sudden I’ve lost the power of speech, and my chest is convulsed by no more than a hoarse croak. Alarmed, I jump to my feet, I run my hands down my neck, across my mouth and face. I scream for help but can only emit a cavernous roar. And it’s at that moment that I get the awaited sensation: a sandy scraping across the roof of my mouth, as if I’d suddenly been fitted with the tongue of a cat. Hanifa Assulua appears at the door, hands on hips, expectantly:

Having another fit, Mariamar?

Mother’s appearance scares Silência. I hear her steps receding quickly, hurrying away while the anxious sound of clucking makes me certain that the chickens also felt her presence. They hadn’t realized that one of them lay lifeless on my lap. But they recognized the furtive movement of our dead visitor. If it’s true that I’m mad, then I share my madness with the birds.

My mother comes nearer, curious. Slowly, she draws her hands up to her face as if seeking help. Then, a few feet away, she stops, horrified:

What have you done to the chicken? Didn’t you use the knife, girl?

Mother turns her back, disconcerted, and makes for the shelter of the house. I look at the chicken, torn to pieces, spread out across the ground. That’s when I see a vulture land at my feet.

* * *

At that moment, I recall an episode from the past: When the priests withdrew from Kulumani at the height of the war, there was no one to look after the aviary at the mission. The chickens were abandoned in their coops, which began to fall apart. Little by little, the birds became wild, scratching around persistently in the open ground and only returning to the henhouses at night. The chicken coops gradually disintegrated, and the old wooden boards disappeared, eaten away by termites. This was a warning: The border between order and chaos was being erased. The primordial savanna was coming to reclaim what had been stolen from it.

And that’s what happened: The chickens were devoured, one at a time, by the vultures. The birds of prey occupied the space previously reserved for domestic fowl, and made themselves so much at home that they lost all fear of us. Half a dozen of them eventually obeyed Grandfather Adjiru’s call, and he, as a reward, would toss them a few chunks of fat.

One time, dinner was pompously announced in our house.

It’s chicken today, what are we celebrating?

We were suspicious of the size of the roasted bird. Only I had the courage to express my doubts:

Are we eating vulture?

And what if we are? my father retorted. Have you never heard it said that we hunters eat the eyes of vultures so as to gain their pinpoint vision?

I never found out what I ate. But the truth is that ever since that meal, I never again got a good night’s sleep. Nightmares tore me from my bed and I would awaken with unwanted cravings, a greed that stole away my very being. The manner in which such hunger took possession of me was not human. To tell the truth, I didn’t just feel hunger. I was hunger from head to foot, and my mouth watered viscous saliva.

It’s early morning and you’re still eating the leftovers from dinner? What sort of hunger is this? my grandfather, ever an early riser, asked, bewildered.

I was taken to Palma for some tests at the hospital. It could be diabetes, the nurse ventured. The suspicion was groundless. None of the tests revealed any illness and I returned to Kulumani without any relief from the mysterious fits.

* * *

In the early morning, my grandfather continued to pass me on the veranda while I was scratching around among the remains of dinner, picking out chicken bones from the manioc flour. Adjiru took advantage of the darkness to exercise his other activity: that of carving masks. In accordance with ancestral precepts, this was a secret task, and no one could suspect that the masks were fashioned by his hands. These carvings invariably portrayed women: The goddesses we once were didn’t want to be forgotten. The hands of men uttered that which their mouths dared not speak.

Can I make a mask? I asked.

A mask, he said, isn’t just something that covers the face of the person dancing. The dancer, the choreography, the music swirling through the body: All this is the mask.

Well then, when you finish your work, can I wear it?

This isn’t a mask. It’s an ntela, or, if you like, a charm.

For God’s sake, Granddad! Do you really believe that stuff?

It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what the dead think. Without this—and he turned the piece of wood over in his hands—without this our ancestors will remain far removed from Kulumani. And you will remain far from the world.

Forgive me, Granddad: but you, an educated man, should have abandoned these beliefs long ago …

He gave me a vague, benign smile: That was his answer. Then he chided me. I shouldn’t throw leftovers of food into the garden.

It attracts animals …

Maybe that’s what I wanted: I wanted to lure the animals to the house, to reinstate the disorder of the jungle, to turn the hen coops into vultures’ nests.

* * *

In time, these nightly fits got worse: I awoke to torn sheets. Objects lay scattered across the floor of my bedroom.

This is no longer hunger, I’m ill. What’s happening to me, Grandfather? I asked, tearful.

The reason for this malady was a secret, Adjiru replied, on one occasion. A secret kept so deep that it had even forgotten about itself.

I don’t understand, Grandfather. You’re making me scared.

It was true I was ill. But this illness was the only thing protecting me from my past.

The problem isn’t yours, dear granddaughter. The problem lies in this house, in this village. Kulumani is no longer a place, it’s an illness.

Kulumani and I were sick. And when, sixteen years ago, I had fallen for the hunter, my passion was no more than an entreaty. I was merely asking for help, silently beseeching him to save me from this illness. Just as writing had previously saved me from madness. Books brought me voices like shade in the open desert.

* * *

Following Archie’s departure all those years ago, I had even thought of writing to him. I would have written endless letters in response to the deep desire I felt. But I never did. No one loved words more than I. But at the same time, I was scared of writing, I was scared of becoming someone else and then, later, no longer being able to return to myself. Just like my grandfather, who surreptitiously carved little pieces of wood, I had a secret occupation. A word drawn on a piece of paper was my mask, my charm, my home cure.

* * *

Today, I know how right I was to keep these letters for myself. Archie Bullseye would, indeed, have been suspicious if he had received letters written by me. In Kulumani, many people are surprised by my ability to write. In a place where the majority of folk are illiterate, people find it strange that a woman knows how to write. And they think I learned it at the mission, with the Portuguese priests. But in fact, my schooling dates from before: If I learned to read, it was thanks to the animals. The first stories I heard were about wild animals. Throughout my life, fables taught me to distinguish right from wrong, to unravel the good from the bad. In a word, it was the animals who began to make me human.

This training occurred without a plan, but with a purpose. My grandfather and father would bring home the meat we ate and the furs we sold from their hunting expeditions. But my grandfather brought something extra. From the bush, he would bring little trophies that he gave me: claws, hooves, feathers. He would leave these remnants on a table by the front door. Underneath each of these adornments, Adjiru Kapitamoro would write a letter on an old piece of paper. An e for an eagle’s feather, a g for a goat’s hoof, an m for munda, the word for an arrow in our local language. That was how the alphabet paraded before my eyes. Each letter was a new color through which I looked at the world.

On one occasion, there was a lion’s claw reposing on the piece of paper. Crouching next to me, my grandfather rolled his tongue around the roof of his mouth, and, like the sound of a small whip, he emitted a resounding l. His hand led mine while I drew the letter on the paper. Afterward, I smiled, triumphant. For the first time in my life, I was coming face-to-face with a lion. And there the beast was, written on the paper, kneeling at my feet.

Careful, my dear granddaughter. Writing is a dangerous form of vanity. It fills the others with fear …

In a world of men and hunters, the word was my very first weapon.

* * *

I peer at the village square from the top of the guava tree in the garden. I’ve never seen the shitala so full. They’ve had lunch, they’ve been drinking, and the sound of their voices has increased. I can’t see the guests who are hidden by the porch. I settle myself on the smooth trunk, and breathe in the scent of the guavas to pass the time while I wait. All of a sudden I see Archie emerge into the square to get some fresh air. He hasn’t changed much: He’s heavier, but still has the same princely air. My heart thumps in my chest. High up in the tree, I have the sensation of being above the world and time.

Suddenly I see Naftalinda crossing the square, sure-footed. What is she doing in a place that’s forbidden to women? I’ve known her ever since she was a young girl, I shared my solitude at the church mission with her. Some people say that her weight has made her mad. I have faith in her insanity. Only small fits of madness can save us from the big one.

* * *

The sight of the square full of people draws me back in time. I recall the occasions my grandfather, Adjiru, would come and fetch me to go for a walk in the village. Holding my hand, he would lead me to the shitala, the hall of the elders. My very presence there was a heresy that only he could authorize. The elders would ask Adjiru about his hunting adventures. At first he would hesitate. Sometimes he would pull me into the center of the gathering and proclaim:

You’re the one who’s going to tell stories, Mariamar.

But I’m a young girl, I’ve never hunted, I’ll never go out hunting …

We’ve all hunted, we’ve all been hunted, he would argue.

He was playing for time in order to become the center of the world. For later, he would draw himself up like a colossus, devoid of age, and his words would roll proudly around the room. At a certain point, Adjiru would pause, sigh, his eyes seeking out a target, suggesting that this was going to be a long story. He would sit down, sweating profusely. But it wasn’t support that he was seeking. It was a throne. Because from then on, Adjiru Kapitamoro would reign. Indeed, he wasn’t recalling the hunt: He was hunting again. In the middle of that gathering, at that very moment, before the gaze of his listeners, my grandfather lay in wait for his prey. And in its tense silence, the assembly feared putting to flight not the hunter’s memories, but the animals he was chasing.

Tell us another story, Adjiru. Tell us about that time when …

My grandfather would raise his arm in reprimand. He refused the invitation: In a hunter’s tale, there’s no such thing as “once upon a time.” Everything is born right there, as his voice speaks. To tell a story is to cast shadows over the flame. All that the word reveals is, in that very instant, consumed by silence. Only those who pray, surrendering their soul completely, are familiar with the way a word ascends and then plummets into the abyss.

* * *

One night, the story had been going on for a long time, and everyone was well oiled with drink, when Genito Mpepe, his voice slurred, interrupted:

Hey, there, Adjiru! You’re a hell of an imposter!

It was like a stone thrown into a puddle without any water. Adjiru’s astonished look was like a wound ready to be opened. Raising his finger, he declared rancorously:

You, Genito, have just snapped the fork when it’s still in the mouth.

Shattered, my grandfather withdrew from the shitala and melted into the night. Only I went with him. I sat down in the dark and waited for him to speak. Finally, after a long pause full of sighs, he complained:

Why? Why did Genito do this to me?

My father’s drunk.

Ungrateful. Ungrateful, the lot of them. What they call lies, I call gifts.

His gaze became lost in infinity. A thousand thoughts swept through Adjiru, a thousand memories. Gradually, his anger subsided.

Do you know something, Mariamar? The saddest thing is that Genito may be drunk, but he’s right. All that bragging in my tales: It’s all smoke and no fire.

You shouldn’t trust the hunter, he admitted. Not because the hunter is a liar. But because hunting contains the truth of a dance: bodies in flight from their own reality. This was how Adjiru understood it.

In fact, he explained, a hunter’s career is made up of fiascoes and forgetfulness. No matter how perfect his aim, a man who hunts is a bungler. For one victory, he has to suffer a thousand defeats. That’s why the hunter is an inventor of his own prowess: because he doesn’t believe in himself, because he’s more fearful of his own weakness than he is of his most ferocious prey.

I’d rather be a liar. For, at heart, I’m nothing. I’ve never done anything.

Don’t say that, Grandfather. You’ve done so much hunting.

Do you want to know something, dear granddaughter? In hunting, the prey works harder than the predator.

He wasn’t complaining. Deep down, his ambition was to be free of all obligations. Happiness, he used to say, consists in not doing anything: To be happy is merely to let God happen. And he fell silent, his hands nervously rubbing his knees.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet, decisive, as if visited by some new spirit. And with firm step, he set off again for the assembly hall. Climbing up on a chair, he puffed out his chest and faced the crowd.

Do you want stories? Well, I’m going to tell you a story. Your story.

Here we go again, some mumbled.

Have you forgotten you were once slaves? Adjiru continued.

We’re doomed, others commented.

Or have you forgotten that we were once taken across the ocean? None of us came back. Or have you forgotten about my father, Muarimi Kapitamoro? He was taken to São Tomé, remember?

We’re going, the men shouted in chorus. And, turning to me, they added: Come with us, because the words are going to fall thick and fast now.

One by one they walked off, until I was the only one left in the hall, my heart in my hands, as I stared at the wobbly chair on top of which my grandfather continued his impassioned rhetoric. I even dared, with timid voice, to call him back into the world. But at that moment, I was invisible to him. An enraged prophet had taken possession of my old relative.

Do you know why the slaves left no memory? Because they have no grave. One of these days, here in Kulumani, no one will have a grave anymore. And there will no longer be any memory that there were once people here …

Grandfather, let’s go home.

Nowadays, we don’t even have to be put on ships. São Tomé is right here, in Kulumani. Here, we all live together, the slaves and the slave owners, the poor and the owners of the poor.

* * *

At that moment, in the now-empty hall, I watched my grandfather Adjiru as if he were a little boy, more solitary and vulnerable than I was. I walked over to the chair that was his stage, and reached up to touch his hand.

Come, Granddad. Let’s go home.

Arm in arm, we walked along the path next to the river.